TolkienScribe's Scribblings: Silmarillion
by TolkienScribe
Summary: A collection of snippets over the course of Silmarillion, too short to belong to separate one-shots. Please read and review. :) New updates in order: Nerdanel, Feanaro, Maedhros, Fingon, Morwen, Finrod, Aegnor, Turgon, Maedhros.
1. Nolofinwe

**TolkienScribe's Scribblings**

 **Disclaimer:** Not one Elf, Dwarf, Human or anything fauna or flora.

 **Dedicated to** a dear friend of mine, Mirkwood Warrior, a friend unlooked for, but welcome, in the forest of fanfiction.

This is a sister of TolkienScribe's Scribblings: LoTR Edition. These 'Scribblings' are my short snippets of musings, storylines, paragraphs that do not fit anywhere else in my stories and are not worthy of standing alone.

This edition will only consist of characters from Silmarillion in Tolkien's World.

Enjoy!

* * *

 **Fingolfin (Nolofinwë)**

The chilly wind slapped against his cheeks and whipped his ragged clothes about him. The cold had long since set into his bones. There was no escape from the biting, killing cold. His entire world now consisted of white snow, white ice and white flakes that stung his eyes and nearly froze him in place if he stopped moving.

The wind howled mercilessly, and his people dragged behind him silently, too weary to speak. Nolofinwë stopped for a moment to grant his aching legs some respite, dug the point of his standard deep into the icy ground below for support. How did it come to this? His nation turned from the heights of civilisation to the pits of society. They were forsworn and cursed, rebels and kinslayers for committing unspeakable atrocities. Nolofinwë felt dread seep into his heart. This was just the beginning. How much more will they suffer, before they are forgiven for their grievous mistake?

He felt a brief touch on his shoulder and looked behind him. Findekáno stood behind him, clutching his shoulder in his pale hand. He held a child in the other arm, unrecognisable from the large cloak the child was bundled in. He clenched his teeth.

He shouldn't have trusted Fëanáro. He should have seen- he should have heeded the signs. If Fëanáro was willing to betray the Teleri, then it was no surprise that he betrayed his own kin, and a part of his nation. Fëanáro's obsession with his jewels was too unchecked, too strong.

He looked at his son and silently nodded. He didn't dare to open his mouth. He was so hungry, he numb to the pain of hunger.

They trudged on, in the swirl of snow and ice. Nolofinwë kept his head ducked… until finally he felt a breath of warm air. His breath stilled for a moment. He didn't dare hope.

The ice sloped upwards, until finally it turned to soft snow and then frost. Finally stone met his feet and he walked with more spring in his step. Finally they passed through the mountains and descended until they reached flat ground of soft soil.

Nolofinwë sank into his knees in relief and shock. It was done. They were across the hell of ice and snow. His skin warmed when a gust of fresh air blew against him. His chilled bones found some heat. His hunger became more pronounced. Behind him he heard gasps of relief.

He raised his eyes, vengeance and hate reflecting deep in the grey irises.

His half-brother will pay for his treachery.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

-Do leave a review!


	2. Nerdanel

**Author's Note:**

Thank you all for your kind reviews!

* * *

 **Nerdanel**

The house was blissfully silent, perfect for her quiet time working on her stone projects. She walked through the corridor, light streaming from every window she passed by. Fëanáro spared nothing when he built the house for them. It was vast, with winding corridors and numerous rooms.

"For I intend to have a large family," Fëanáro murmured to her. Nerdanel shivered and gave him no reply.

At the moment, she had only two sons, with a third child on the way.

As she turned around the corner of the corridor, her ears caught a sound. It was dim, but it was melodious. It broke the silence into numerous shards, dispelling them into the air. The song was pleasant to hear, sung in such an ethereal voice. Entranced, she followed it, the bag carrying her tools for stonework balanced on her hip.

The voice grew louder with every step she took to come near it. It rose and fell, like waves lapping against the shores of Aman. Nerdanel's lips parted slightly in wonder. She never thought anyone could possess such a beautiful voice. Then it faltered and another voice took its place. This one was deep, booming and masculine. She paused for a moment in mid-step. This voice was powerful, commandeering. It fell and the first voice answered, sweet and low.

Who sang so beautifully in her home? Maitimo was asleep and Makalaurë was in the forge working with his father. She walked faster, searching for the two people.

She wasn't a lover of music and song, and yet these voices drew her in in their web. Her eagers steps led her finally to a closed door that opened into the library. It rose and fell, much sweeter than the sound of chisel chipping away stone and more harmonious than the rhythmic beating of hammer against red-hot metal.

She stood there, with one hand hovering over the doorknob and the other balancing her tools against her hip. At last she cast her tools aside and listened for a while longer, how the deep voice raged and commanded- how the low, gentle voice begged and pleaded. Finally she took it no more.

She opened the door and strode inside, intending to face the mysterious singers and found not two, but just one Elf. And that Elf was very, very young.

There. Sitting on the table and surrounded in a pool of golden light pouring from the glass-fitted skylight above was no other than her second son. The voice faltered immediately. The last few notes ran through the air. Pink dusted Makalaurë's cheeks as he looked away in embarrassment. Makalaurë was still dressed in his clothes he used when he visited the forge; dusty brown and grey, covered in slight soot and scent of smoke. And yet his clothes didn't hide his rich bloodline and he looked every inch a prince. He was young, but he strongly resembled his grandfather Finwë in his strong noble features and prominent straight nose. Her son's night-coloured hair was thrown over one shoulder and he fiddled nervously with the knot trying his neckline closed. An open book rested beside him, and he was no doubt singing the verses written there. His pale skin, so much like his father's, was tinted light golden in the light. His feet dangled off the ground, crossed at the ankles.

When her surprise passed, she reached him and with gentle fingers, persuaded him to look up at her.

"Blessed be, sweet child." She whispered before she kissed her son's forehead.

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 **Author's Note:**

I don't intend to work only on angst. ;)

 **Replies to Anon:**

anthi35: Thank you!


	3. Eol

**Eöl**

He was not imprisoning her. He loved her.

At least that is what he told himself. Aredhel was sharp-sighted; convincing her was harder than convincing herself. Did she love him? He was not sure. She never said. But she might have, somewhere in her heart to actually agree to be his wife.

As he said to himself, he was not imprisoning her.

Aredhel's laughter drew him from his thoughts. She stood in the corner of his forge, tapping a metal rod across the metal plates, creating a symphony he never thought they were capable of. He smiled.

He was selfish. He loved her, and he kept her.


	4. Ecthelion

**Ecthelion**

He sat on a small stone at the foot of a large willow. Its branches hung low and provided him with a cool shade from the sun. He was not alone. Children sat in a half-circle around him. Their young mothers and other maidens lingered at the back.

The melody swelled and lowered as his fingers moved over the holes of his flute. The birds perched above him answered his song with melodies of their own. The children sat, all of them cross-legged with backs bent forward and enrapt expressions on their faces. He finally tapered the song at the end. The birds fell silent soon after.

One of the children scrambled forward and tugged on the hem of his tunic.

"One more, my lord," he pleaded. "Please?"

Ecthelion laughed and ruffled the child's hair.

"No, I beg you," Ecthelion said, lowering himself on one knee. "I have played the flute and sung throughout the evening. I think I deserve my supper now." There was a chorus of disappointment. Ecthelion raised his hands in silent apology.

"Perhaps after supper?" He asked. He was greeted with cheers and applause. The children dawdled off with their mothers and the maidens followed their friends after. Ecthelion rose to his full height and nodded after them with a charming smile.

He suddenly felt a hard clap on his back. Ecthelion lurched forward and quickly regained his balance. He turned around and found Glorfindel behind him. His comrade was grinning widely.

"You are quite notorious with the ladies of the court," Glorfindel said. "Perhaps you should teach me the art of the flute as well?"

"I would," Ecthelion returned. "But the art can only be learned by someone who is quick with his fingers." Glorfindel leaned back and pressed his hand on his heart as if he were hurt. Then he laughed.

"I will come in the morning and take your helmet to the smiths." Glorfindel said.

"What! Why?"

"I just believe that your hubris has resulted with large swelling in your head." Glorfindel answered him.

Ecthelion laughed.


	5. Nerdanel 1

**Nerdanel**

Her hands worked feverishly, curving out the narrow bridge of a nose, the intense eyes set under arched eyebrows and a strong jawline. She always took time with her statues, to see if she was doing well out her hands already memorised the dimensions. She had done this so many times.

So many times...

This one was no different. He had the same brooding likeness as that of his real-life companion, the same sharp features and a grim smile- except he was dressed in his wedding attire. She stepped back, hands covered with marble dust.

"Nerdanel?"

She sprang for the covers but before she shrouded the statue, her father appeared around the corner. His smile dampened but did not disappear completely. He reached her and studied her work.

"Truly masterful," he praised. "You capture his likeness completely, daughter."

She clenched the fabric in her hands, whitening it with marble dust from her fingers. Her father smiled kindly at her and caressed her cheek. His expression was sorrowful.

"All the talent you possess cannot turn stone to life. You cannot bring him back."

Nerdanel tore away from her father's grasp.

"He created gems out of nothing and poured light in them. Perhaps I possess the skill to turn stone to life." She said. She tried to leave but her father stopped her.

"Not all of us are blessed with exceeding skill." He said gently. "You are not Fëanáro."

Her heart shattered inside her but she smiled and nodded just the same. She tried to flee but her father held on to her nevertheless.

"And it would bring you more grief than comfort, my dear child," he murmured.

The knowledge did not bring her any comfort.


	6. Feanaro

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **one** update before this.

* * *

 **Fëanáro**

He often argued with his wife, that while their last sons were one of spirit but not of body. She felt differently and voiced her opinion just as much as he did. Still, he did not relent when she named them both the same name.

But the twins took advantage of their mother-name.

He stared now at his sons with hands lined with soot and grease from the forge on his hips. There was no way to tell them apart, with unruly burgundy hair in tangles and tied loosely with a leather band, upturned noses and full pink lips. They resembled their mother more than they resembled him.

"Speak truthfully," he commanded with as much intimidation as he could muster without genuinely terrifying them. "Which one of you finished my lunch your mother set aside?"

The twins looked up with wide eyes, utterly innocent. They pointed at each other.

"It was Amburassa!"

Behind him, Nerdanel laughed.

"One of spirit, indeed!" She quipped.


	7. Maedhros

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **two** updates before this.

* * *

 **Maedhros**

Cursed. Feared. Revered. Hated. Obeyed. Idolised.

When did they turn into beings from tales meant to frighten children or spoken of in low voices in dimly lit rooms? When did they become so vile and fell?

Not for the first time, he cursed the Oath for bringing ruin and death. It drove him, like hounds nipping the heels of their prey for sport. He lost everything from the moment he repeated the words after his father.

The door creaked and Maedhros looked away from the fire. A small shadow peeked through the narrow crack with wide eyes. He silently gestured at him to come forward with his left hand. The door suddenly swung wide open and a child ran to him.

He sighed and let the Peredhil scramble up into his lap.

"What is it, young one?"

Elros laid his head against his shoulder.

"Tell me again, of the festivals in Aman?"

Maedhros smiled and leaned his head against the back of his chair.

Perhaps he should also add 'loved'.


	8. Fingon

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **four** updates before this.

* * *

 **Fingon**

"My lord, it is imperative that you must rest."

Fingon raised himself nevertheless and fixed his darkest look on the healer who planted her hands firmly on his naked chest. The wound across his abdomen throbbed in protest at his unkind movement.

"In rank both as a noble and as a soldier, I am higher and I will not take commands from you." He said with temper that threatened to snap free.

The healer did not yield.

"My lord," she answered calmly, still not moving. "You are truly in need of rest. The wound is deep and if any of the stitches rupture, you will spill your innards on the floor. Here, in this tent for healing, I command you."

With that, she pushed him back with surprising strength and resumed tidying the bloodied bandages and water by his cot. He lay back against the pillow, stunned and then he laughed.

"And what amuses my lord?"

Fingon wrapped a hand over his eyes and continued to laugh, even when it pained him.

"Lady healer, I believe I have finally matched my match."


	9. Morwen

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **five** updates before this.

* * *

 **Morwen**

She held her walking stick in gnarled, blue-veined hand, her back forever bent with age. White hair streamed out from under her hood. She pressed her lips together, her throat dry with thirst.

A gravestone as tall as a man and wife stood before her. Elven letters were etched into the stone, damning both her son and daughter to death. She tried not to believe it, but deep in her heart she knew it to be true. A mother always knows.

She sat there for a long while and wondered. Was there any way to avoid this? It occurred to her, perhaps there was indeed a way, or was many ways if she had made just one realisation.

That pride indeed was a dangerous thing.


	10. Finrod

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **six** updates before this.

* * *

 **Finrod**

"Has no one caught your eye, brother?"

"You spend too much time meddling in my affairs, sister," Finrod answered wryly, watching Galadriel from the corner of his eye.

"But tell me truly," she persisted. "Have you not considered marriage? Has no one caught your eye?"

He looked down below from his wide and long window. The men conversed with many of his smiths. Their women were there too, speaking with the she-Elves. One of them drew his eye; petite and delicate with long brown hair and wide brown eyes. As if she sensed his gaze, the woman looked up. He tore his eyes away before their eyes met.

"Nay, none."


	11. Aegnor

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **seven** updates before this.

* * *

 **Aegnor**

"Name any treasure and it is yours," the man implored. "Name any beast from my stables, any famed weapon belonging to my men, and I will surrender it. Take any or all, but leave my daughter."

Aegnor sighed and looked away. No amount of jewels, gold, armour, weapons or horses could replace the love in his heart. Boromir knew but he spoke with the concern of a father.

And he should be concerned. Where would he be, once Andreth withered away over the years and died simply because her body could no longer carry her? What of her, when she saw him, forever young, with the years turning him more handsome?

"Ease your heart, Boromir," Aegnor spoke. "I will not approach my daughter. I know too well the cost. But she will remain in my heart nevertheless."


	12. Turgon

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **eight** updates before this.

* * *

 **Turgon**

The creature that lay stretched on a bed before him was a shadow of its former self.

Bruised, broken and pale skin pulled tautly over prominent ribs that barely encased the organs within. The stomach was spoon-shaped, indented. The rest of his body disappeared under the blanket but he saw two long sticks for legs. He raised his head and winced when he finally settled his gaze on his face. His face was haggard, skull-like, with cracked bleeding lips and eyes too large for such an emaciated face. It was painful to look at him. And wherever he looked, he saw destruction. His body was riddled with wounds and poorly healed scars. His ears were mutilated, the edges seemingly cut by a serrated knife. He could not begin to imagine what Maitimo had suffered in their hands.

Fingon said nothing, but eyed him warily as he took a pair of scissors and proceeded to cut the long burgundy mane. There was a time when the creature on the bed was greatly admired. He was not only handsome, but beautiful. He turned heads wherever he went. His tall height and his red hair made a statement that was not easily forgotten. He was charming, honest and willing to put himself to good hard work. Quite unlike his father.

But his hair was now a tangled mess, dull and dirty. It had to be cut. He finally raised his eyes and met Fingon's.

"I will never forgive them for what they have done," he said at last. Then he looked down on Maitimo, at his bruised body and haggard face. "But he did nothing to deserve a cruelty such as this."

The tension on Fingon's body eased. Turgon spotted a broomstick against the wall by the door, no doubt left behind and forgotten by a servant in a hurry. He grabbed it and helped Fingon by sweeping the fallen hair off the floor.


	13. Maedhros 1

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **nine** updates before this.

* * *

 **Maedhros**

His lands stretched before him, his own and no one else's. Here it was safe. Here it was haven. No one commanded him here.

"Onward my faithful steed!"

The voice above him cried out the command, the small being's heels kicking impatiently against his chest.

Maedhros sighed and looked up. Elrond's face loomed before him. The child looked comical, upside down.

"Say it again, and I will drop you in the nearest stream," he threatened.

"Do not mind him, Elrond!" Maglor called behind him. His brother stood grinning, his thumbs hooked into his belt. "His height must be put to some good use!"

Elrond laughed. The boys were neither too young nor small, but compared to both Maglor and Maedhros, they were thin and light. He could easily lift one of them and not feel the strain.

"Good use?" Maedhros demanded. "Oh, I will put it to good use."

In a blink of an eye, Maedhros was off, covering the ground in long strides with Elrond hanging on for dear life. They neared a stream and with one hand on Elrond's knee, he flipped the boy over and he landed into the stream with a terrific splash.

Laughter echoed, and all four of them were not sure which one belonged to which.


	14. Thingol

**Author's Note:**

All Scribblings from Unfinished Tales will be published here. :)

* * *

 **Thingol**

He lifted the child slightly with her hands. Her bare feet dangled for a moment in the air before they settled in his feet. He felt the light warmth and pressure through his light shoes.

"There, young one," he murmured. He held both hands surely in his own. His daughter's head was bowed, a mass of black curls bouncing on her back as she jumped lightly on his feet. "None of that," he chided. "Now, music."

A gentle music flowed through the hall. Thingol led his daughter slowly but surely through the steps, her feet still on his own and her hands closed tightly on his thumbs.

Together father and daughter danced and music was their canopy.


	15. Beren

**Beren**

He did not always like the sight of the bright jewel upon his wife's brow. It was too bright, too white... And too strange.

Did his eyes deceive him, or did his wife seemed older and wearier as of late?

"Your beauty is greater than this jewel that you wear," Beren spoke lovingly, caressing her hair, and avoiding the jewel completely. "Must you wear it?"

"Does it not please you? After all, it was your gift to me for marriage."

"Years have passed since." Beren said. "My heart has changed when the seasons turned. I wonder at times; do the Sons of Fëanor not have better claim on it than we?"

"But it is not theirs to claim," Lúthien spoke with one pale hand on his cheek. "We claimed it for our love. And we sacrificed all that we had for it. Hush, do not worry yourself with this."

Beren kept his silence then, but he wondered silently for many long sleepless nights that the sons of Fëanor had a bigger claim on the jewel. After all, it was their father who forged the gem, and it was stolen from him.

Beren's silence cost him. The sons of Fëanor chased his children and his children's children for many long years after in their hunt of the jewel.


End file.
